45. Is your character the kind to hide their true emotions or do they wear their heart on their sleeve?
Answering this OOC and twice because the answers areslightly different for Heryneth and Nightingale.
Heryneth: He’s is very good at concealing his emotions.Everything goes behind the mask of false smiles and charming words. Theexception being if he is extremely shocked or simply chooses to let the mask gofor some reason. No one is really close to him at the moment so there areprobably only a few people who know small portions of what is actually going onin his head and heart at the moment.
Nightingale: Is almost as good as Heryneth is at concealing.But in some ways the bird is younger and his emotions are far more wild and volatile,so sometimes his mask slips. More often though someone who has come to know himcan simply learn to read certain responses for what they are. He masks a lotbehind his smiles too and definitely isn’t the kind to have his heart out onhis sleeve for the whole world to read.
I thank you so much for letting me join your shindig, it’s a pretty sweet gig By Except jokes on you now I’m going to latch on like a leech and you’re going to regret these decisions! Mwuaha!
I know we were just talking about this just... yesterday? I think, but ah I remember being on my first mission ever in the Maldrim, and I was so sure I’d make a fool out of myself. Ended up clinging to you the entire time because you helped me feel less like a dork. I was always pretty excited to see you log on (and still am 8);), but I try to bite my lip and not jump on you every time like an excitable dog.
I love Raven, and Thorne, and Angel, and everyone in between, and I’m going to pick them all up and whisk them away. I love how creative you are with all your characters, and boy do I ever look up to your writing style. It’s so poetic and descriptive, I hope to get as good as you some day uwu/) I hope your holidays treat you well, and you have a wonderful year, and the next to come.))
“Oh, uhm, so it is!” Basil responded, looking up with Raven’s oh so casual observation. Of course the rogue was the one to spot it first! Then again, one couldn’t really blame Raven if his attention started drifting once Basil opened his mouth. The redhead had likely gone off on some uninteresting topic and had yet to realize he was rambling. In Basil’s defense, it had been a while since they had last spoken in depth, and so the priest had taken up on taking advantage of that!
Except that tiny decoration had managed to button his lips as he thought it over.
“Of course, it just means a silly tradition, I don’t think anyone really follows it anymore. R-really now, I mean, it’s just a plant, and who’s to say someone should kiss just because of a plant, uhm, I mean, if you want to. I don’t want to offend if you follow traditions, but uh, otherwise, it can just be igno--”
Basil’s train of thought abruptly derailed as Raven piped in, mentioning something along the lines of how he wouldn’t mind a kiss. Aaand that’s when the blush set in, and a nervous laugh bubbled up from his lips.
“Ah, uh, hm, oh. Well. I mean. Okay.” Basil coughed into his fist, attempting to smooth out his own ruffled feathers and play this off smooth. So smooth. Like a glass lake iced over. Except he was the person on top the ice desperately attempting not to slip when in reality he was sprawling every which way. Slowly Basil inched closer and placed a hand on Raven’s arm, leaning in to--
Place the most chaste, quickest, softed kiss to Raven’s lips before scooting away, “Ahaha, uh, so, anyway! Right, what were we talking about, ah yes, a-as I was saying...”
The Ghostlands weren’t really thebest place for a rose garden, but Vaelanys wasn’t sure he had ever seen theblooms look more beautiful. In the perpetual evening light the reds, oranges,and yellows stood out, brilliantly vibrant against their dark leaves, and thewhite roses fairly glowed, like a scattering of stars. “Do you likeit?” He asked the man who stood just behind him, shining white as theroses in the dusk.
"It is beautiful.“ Hecould hear genuine pleasure in the purr of Thorn’s voice and he basked inthe sound of it as much as in the sightof the roses. He was proud of this. He had not been sure the roses would everbloom. He wasn’t sure it would last. The ground here was tainted with darknessand death and this single brave show of blossom and beauty might be all theroses could muster before they too decayed.
But for this moment they wereachingly lovely, and the garden seemed to him a small pocket of color and life.Hope. He wished it could last, that he could hold onto this garden and this oneperfect moment forever. Thorn’s hand closed gently on his shoulder and he liftedhis own to cover it, drinking in one more deep breath of air that smelled likeroses and a dusting of snow.
"Don’t you want to see therest?” The warlock asked, gesturing to the house rising beyond the gardenwall. Almost reluctantly Vaelanys nodded, giving the roses one last sweepingglance. A single red petal fell as he looked, and then another of goldenyellow, and then slowly, silently the petals were raining down, red and orange,pink, and gold, and white. But where they fell all of them were red. Hismovements stopped after those few steps, the hand that had caught his left totug fruitlessly as he watched the petals fall until they had blanketed theground in unbroken crimson.
The red stained ground heaved,roiling as though something writhed beneath it and all of his momentary joybecame grief and something icy inside like horror as he watched the blackthorny roots of the roses begin to rise like serpents from the blood red sea ofruined blossoms. The roots lashed,reaching out for him like grasping hands, thorns coming to tear at the leatherof his boots as they tried to encircle his ankles.
He leapt backward, colliding withThorn’s chest, and gasped in surprise as the warlock simply scooped him up intohis arms. The twisted vines of black thorns followed, but stopped just short ofthe pale elf’s feet, seething angrily, small thorny tendrils questing upwardbut not quite high enough to reach him. Vaelanys stared at them in growinghorror, something tight and miserable and cold squeezing in his chest, thateven the warm strength of Thorn’s arms could not quite dispel.
He grieved for the blossoms, even ashe tugged a hand up to set it against Thorn’s shoulder as a particularly boldtendril grabbed for his wrist. “I don’t…” his voice was husky andalmost unrecognizable. “I don’t understand what happened.”
"Never mind, Vaelanys.“The warlock said, turning to walk toward the far side of the garden. Beneaththem the vines roiled and crept and as something crunched under Thorn’s bootVaelanys realized it was not merely seething roots and crimson petals thatcoated the ground but bleached bones as well. The warlock walked over it all,unconcerned, but over his shoulder Vaelanys watched the roots reach for himagain and again, every movement a bit higher, a bit bolder.
The gate seemed further away withevery step Thorn took, but in the warlock’s arms he felt safe, until the firstpinprick pain started and he looked down to find the thorny vines from beneathThorn’s skin reaching up to twine and prick into his own. They were cold as iceand he pulled back, trying to draw his wrist free. and watching in horror asthe vines only tightened until rivulets of his own blood ran over his fingers,and began their inexorable climb up his arm. "Isolvar!”
Vaelanysjerked awake with his own cry, sitting bolt upright in the dim light, eyes wideand wild. He was drenched with sweat and moments later he realized it was awonder he hadn’t fallen from the bench he was still seated on. He was shakingand he propped his elbows against the tabletop that had pillowed his head,cradling his own face in his hands.
He startledall over again at the gentle brush of Thorn’s fingers against his shoulder,looking up at the warlock with shaken eyes. Thorn looked half asleep himself,robe draped loosely around him, dark vines dancing over the pale skin thatshone in the flickers of the lantern light. Vaelanys swallowed.
"Cometo bed.“ Thorn whispered, bending over as though he would try to lift himinto his arms.
Vaelanysswallowed again, shaking his head. "Don’t try to carry me, I’m tooheavy.” If he had helped the night before, he knew it was still far fromenough. He pushed himself wearily to his feet, startled by how much he wasstill trembling, and turned into Thorn’s embrace, hiding his face for a momentagainst a sleep tousled fall of snowy hair.
Thorn’sarms closed tight around him and his own hands shook as they wrapped around thewarlock. For a moment he just stood so, until his lungs had remembered how totake steady breaths once more. His voice was still a bit rough when he spoke,muffled against hair that smelled of snow. “Do you think ruined ground canever heal?”
Sigyn: What do you wish to protect more than anything?
Vaelanysfrowned at the unsigned note. He found them in his mail sometimes now, noteswith a simple question on them and nothing else. There was no way of reallyanswering them of course and that made them all the more odd to him. Why ask a question you couldn’t receive an answer to? They alsomade him uneasy.
Still theanswer to this one wasn’t difficult, not really. People. He wrotein the blank space at the bottom of the paper. All people if I could. Butif I can’t then I suppose most specifically those people I care about. The oneI care about most and my family, the Lynxes. My friends… It was a lotto protect. He had so little real power to do so. He wondered if this note wassupposed to be some sort of threat or warning, or if he was merely reading toomuch into an odd prank.
Thereis a soul too, that I will protect if I can. If I can find the way to do it. Asoul and a bond. He sighed. I think it is far too late toprotect my heart after all. He frowned down at the words he’d written atthe bottom of the unsigned note, then slowly crumpled the paper and tossed it away into the garbage. “I wish I thought I could protect everything I love.” He murmured.
19. What were your character’s deepest disillusions? In life? What are they now?
I wasn’traised with a lot of illusions. The few things I was given to believe weretruths as far as I knew. My parents loved me, they never gave me a reason tothink otherwise and now they’re dead. They never lied to me about what I was,or my skill at it. When I had done well I received praise, when I had donepoorly I got a scolding about the limited number of mistakes a person in ourwork was allowed by the fates.
Syrothasloved me too. Perhaps I doubted it at first, doubted sometimes even that hecould. He was truth and light where I was shadows and lies. I loved him too. In a way that threw cautionto the winds and forgot what I had been told about love making me a fool andcosting my life. Maybe I even thought it would be worth it if it did. But myparents hadn’t warned me that my life wasn’t the only possible cost.
Somehow Ialways thought it would be me that would go. But instead I was the one who wokeup in a bed alone to the words ‘no survivors’ and the memory of Syrothasleading further harm from me. I guess that was when I lost the illusion that I would always be the one to pay theprice for my foolishness.
I’ve alwaysthought I would pay for my 'crimes’ too. One day. I just never realized thatthe day I got into the biggest trouble of my life it would be for something Ihadn’t actually done. I’m guilty of enough things, why should I worry of beingfalsely accused? But I was.
'Nevertrust easy money’ That should have been one of my parents’ rules, but itwasn’t. Taking the coin to stand and smile at a white haired man and then leavewas very easy for the price it paid. I just didn’t realize that weeks later itwould mean being dragged off and pinned to a table and given shackles that areengraved in my flesh.
That’s whatthey are, I’m starting to think. Shackles. These bands of ink that are almostpretty things except that they move like things sleeping under my skin. Andsomething else sleeps under my skin too, hidden inside of me, stealing mymemories.
I don’tknow where I have been the last weeks. I have no memory of them. I woke up inPandaria when I had gone to sleep in Silvermoon. I don’t know why my leathersare patched or where that small new scar came from. I don’t know who wrote thislist of names with my handwriting.
I thought Ihad been asleep hours, but the Pandaren tell me a date weeks from the last Irecall. And the thorny vines on my arms are larger, climbing almost past thelength of the bracers I had hidden them with, creeping down over the backs ofmy hands. What is happening to me?
Perhapsthat’s the biggest illusion of all. I always thought that if I had nothing elsemy choices would be my own.
There was something oddly familiar in the halls Vaelanys walked. If they were halls. He could not tell for certain when they were hung with darkness so thick it was as suffocating as velvet curtains. He was entirely blinded, and the weight of the darkness was palpable. He sought his way with hands outstretched in front of him, guided by the tugging seated low in his chest.
It pulled at him, drawing him ever in one direction, forcing him to press through darkness that seemed to stick and cling about him like webs. It throbbed with the rhythm of his heart, beat a second pulse in the mark at his shoulder. He didn't know what it meant for Thorn but he was needed and he needed to be where it pulled him.
No light broke the darkness, but he thought he saw things in it. Shadows tricked into his eyes by their need to make sense of the emptiness. He hoped they were tricks. He hated the feeling they left, of being alone and yet followed by things that terrified him.
It was not silent. At first it had seemed so except for a slow and steady beat he had almost taken for his own heart. Now though it seemed that the sound surrounded him, adding its own pulse to the darkness and somehow increasing the urgency he felt at that tugging. And somewhere else there were other sounds: roars, screams, cries. The clashing of battle.
His hand lifted to his shoulder. It had begun to ache dully in a way that drove his steps to speed even if he still couldn't see. Thorn needed him. And in that moment it didn't matter to him if he had been told things that chilled and confused him. It didn't matter that he didn't have any idea what to think any more, that need tugged at him and he would have dragged himself bleeding and broken to answer it.
The shadows clung to him, sticking to his skin, tangling in his hair, threatening to trip up his feet. He flailed at them, shoving them back from eyes that still couldn't see and stumbled forward. Suddenly there was light, pale sun on snow, cold and so bright that his eyes closed and his arm came up to shield them. The sounds were louder now, as though a war raged all around him, on all sides, in the air above him.
He couldn't see, as blinded now by the sudden light as he had been by the darkness before it. He blinked frantically against the light, keenly aware of the sounds and of how vulnerable he felt, one small thing in plains of endless snow. It was always snow. And the tugging drew him on even before he could see, out into the snow and the sounds of combat. And somehow around him, in the ground under his feet and in his own blood he heard that same steady beat.
He could not decide if it was soothing or frightening. His vision began to clear and he peered out into a war. The skies were full of the great frostwyrms. On the ground all around him, men he couldn't make himself take in fought and died against endless waves of the scourge. And on the horizon a storm was building, washing down over it and swallowing it all.
The storm frightened him even more than the battle he waded through, for it built into a great white wall and it swept over the battlefield and the cries and screams and the clashes of weapons were all lost in the single howling roar of the wind, as though they had never been. As though none of it had ever been. It drew closer and part of him wanted desperately to turn and run, but there was nowhere to hide.
And the tugging pulled at him from the other side of swirling flakes, increasingly insistent. The pulsing heartbeat that steadied everything faltered... and the next throb of at his shoulder hurt. Drawing in one last deep breath that smelled of Thorn, of earth and snow, he steeled himself and ran forward into the heart of the blizzard.
The storm caught him up, wind and snowflakes pelting at his skin, tearing into him. And the feeling that had been pulling on him rose in its insistence until it stole his breath. Eyes closed against the snow he took another step forward, and then the pain began.
The flakes of snow became small knives, driving into him, until the pain settled somewhere deep inside, in his blood, in his bones, under his skin, flaying him from the inside out. He screamed, the sound lost to the wail of the wind, and then screamed again as the pain only grew worse. He stepped forward, or thought he did, no longer even certain he was standing. The storm was tearing him apart, and somewhere on the other side of it Thorn needed him.
He jerked awake, soaked with sweat and yelling, and for a moment he thought the moisture he felt on his skin was blood. For the pain had not vanished with waking, instead it lingered, sharp and fierce under his skin, making him arch up, every muscle drawing taut. He was not bleeding, he was not injured, and yet he couldn't breathe. He couldn't think beyond that pain and the insistent pulling.
Vaelanys' eyes were wide and wild as they snapped open and he pushed himself up to sit, and then to stand. The movement did nothing to help with the pain or his growing awareness that even if it felt like he should be bleeding it wasn't his pain at all. It was Thorn's. At least the physical pain was. That which tightened his chest and added an uncomfortable weight to the pounding of his heart he knew was his own. He wasn't certain which was harder to bear.
“I wonder what else tastes like chicken... I mean does everything taste like chicken or does chicken taste like everything? Which came first? The flavour or the idea that everything tastes like chicken...Mm, chicken... I wonder if I’d get in trouble for chasing the hens again.”
